Arkham Legacy
by Neetyneet
Summary: !AC SPOILERS! As the smoke clears over Arkham City, more cases open for the world's greatest detective. Where's Harley? Who is the mysterious Mayor of Gotham? Who will win the escalating gang wars? And what will become of Arkham City?
1. Cell 2104

_Author's Note: I was inspired to start this fic after playing through Batman: Arkham City. I am a long-time fan of Batman in general and I will be amalgamating a lot of different villains/stories into this interpretation. I really appreciate any reviews, so please go ahead! Also, if you liked this, I'd love you to go take a look at KayMoon24's stories - especially her Arkham Asylum series. _

_Chemical Compound: UNKNOWN_

_Core Material Temperature: -47_

_SENDING DATA ANALYSIS: 2% COMPLETE_

Between the searing cold ebbing out of the floor, the sting of his wounds and minor injuries and the melodramatic sobbing, the sobbing was probably the most irritating.

"Oh, oh, oh. Ooooh no, no no no no. Awwwhahahahahawww."

The cold was making his nose run and the fine cut on his chin sting. That sample would be enough: it was time to get going.

"Ooooooooooooh..."

His solid boots on the cold steel floor put the sobbing to a startled stop. She hadn't forgotten he was here though: he knew it was just an act. Beaten and proving unreasonable and volatile, she was secure in a small holding cell. While this fate wasn't the most pleasant, it was better than leaving her to the mercy of the inmates and thugs roaming the Asylum, searching for scraps of trouble. Besides, time was getting tight. Minutes were a precious commodity, and they were going down the drain.

"Naaaaaaaaaaaaaw."

Squaring his shoulders, the man in the bodysuit climbed the metal stairs in quiet steps, poised on the balls of his feet. Every movement was measured, every square inch of the surroundings was scanned, and every moment accounted for.

"Mister Jay?"

His eyes squeezed shut in exasperation. "Just stay in your cell."

"Oh, it's you."

He turned around, his boot grating on the metal. The woman was pressed up against the grating in desperation. Her provocative outfit was thrown into contrast the look of pathetic sadness on her face.

Bruce Wayne had seen his fair amount of desperate cases, and this woman was just another one. He knew she was beyond a pep talk and a slap on the wrist: Alfred had taught him to pick his battles carefully, and he had so far regretfully ignored her campaign of self-destructive behaviour.

"It's - it's OK," she sniffled, wiping her nose with the back of her hand like a child and smearing white paint on it. "Mister Jay's gonna come back for me, you'll see. He's gotta have his favourite girl at his own party, right?"

Bruce began to turn away. Sensing she was losing him, Harley Quinn gripped the bars of her cell tighter and bounced on the balls of her feet. "Hey, Bat. You wouldn't go to a party without your own girlfriend, would'ja?"

Irritation made him snap; "Your romantic entanglements are of no interest to me, _Doctor __Quinzel_."

The comment knocked the wind out of her. Her head dropped, and she pressed her white forehead to the bar in despair. He felt a pang of impatience. It was not his job to console her, and he had used up every modicum of the allotted time for her.

But if he didn't, who would? She was a laughing-stock. He had listened to plenty of Joker's thugs while hiding in secluded spots around the Asylum: consensus among the more sane inmates and the Blackgate gang members was that Harley was an object of desire: either to kill or to claim as a conquest. The way they spoke about her with twisted, grizzled lips and lewd gestures cheapened her from a young lady with a doctorate into a trophy. While touring the party circuits, Bruce Wayne had encountered a boorish young man who counted the women he'd known intimately by cutting a niche into his four poster bed. In his experience, Bruce had noticed people who objectified their fellow beings came in different strengths: and he had seen the topmost end of the scale tonight, holding a number of the doctors hostage.

But this dawdling was ridiculous. He wasn't a psychiatrist.

"You should just stay here. It's safer."

Her face was set, but she carried on in the same blind, love-drunken vein. "Mister Jay's gunna spring me outta here. He don't want his special girl left out here…in the cold…"

Her psyche baffled and delicately intrigued him in equal measure. Was this her genuine belief, or an elaborate ploy to weaken him and escape incarceration? The tears at least were genuine, because he could see them making a mess of her face paint. Black and white were mingling, making her face look shaded and inhuman.

"Batman," said a calm, measured voice in his ear, "What are you doing?"

"It's alright," he muttered, twisting his mouth so he was speaking into of the corner of his cowl. He kept his eyes on Quinn. If she was listening to him, she was doing a good job of masking it.

"I hate to state the obvious, but you're wasting your time here."

He ignored her, even if she was the voice of reason as usual.

"Hey B-Man," sniffed Quinn, "Did I tell ya? When all this is over, Mister Jay and I're gunna get _married!_" She squeaked the last word with glee. "And we're gunna live happ'ly ever after…because _you'll be DEAD_!"

That was enough. Even if she was a desperate case, he was definitely wasting his time now. "I'm on my way back to the Mansion," he said to Oracle. "I'll get there as quickly as I can."

He turned away and walked three steps towards the entrance of the holding bay. Prepping the Batclaw attached to his wrist, he raised a steady arm and squinted up at the first level, aiming for a grubby iron railing.

"Hey, where'ya goin'?" She sniffed.

For a moment he hesitated. Like so many others, she was a just a victim of The Joker's lies and dirty tricks. In fact, he could see too many situations where she had come off noticeably worse. And just why had Joker preyed on her, such a vulnerable and suggestive young woman? What was his perversion?

"B-Man?"

He lowered his arm and turned his head towards her. She was gripping the bars of the cell as if her life depended on it, and her knees were buckled against the door. She looked like a discarded puppet: an ironic coincidence.

"Stay here, Quinn. You're safest in here."

"Can'tcha just let me outta here, B-Man?" Harley jutted one hip and lifted her chest towards him. The gesture might have been seductive to many an Arkham inmate starved of feminine attention, but he could see the involuntary slackness in her muscles that gave her away. It was half-hearted now. She knew that she was in that cell for the long haul.

"I'll make it worth your whi-ile." She twirled a lock of tangled blonde hair in around her finger, her voice a sing-song whisper.

"No." He almost added a curt 'thank-you', if he hadn't been repulsed by the idea.

Her bottom lip began to protrude, and before his eyes she turned into an enraged animal, thrashing against the bars of her cage. "But I wanna get out! Lemme out, you stupid Bat bastard!"

Silently, he drew closer to her until he was a mere inch from the bars of the cell. Under his imposing shadow, Harley stopped her fidgeting and screaming and looked up at him.

"Listen to me," he growled. "If I let you out now, you'll barely last five minutes out there. Inmates will find you - or worse, Joker's thugs. And then what do you think is going to happen?"

"Those mooks answer to _me_," she pouted.

"Not when you're alone and vulnerable, they won't. And do you really think that your Mister Jay is going to remember you? Do you think he's going to send someone to look after you, or is he going to leave you wandering around in the Hell-hole he created? Or is he too wrapped up in his own plans to think about someone else?"

She blinked up at him like a startled animal.

"Stay in here, Quinn. It really is for your own good."

"You can't talk about my Mister Jay like that." She was loud, but he could see she was intimidated. Considering the provocative way she dressed and the company she kept, she didn't seem to like being near imposing men. Did she choose to act that way, or did Joker force her into it?

"It's the truth, and you know it. Now stop acting like a child." He rubbed his wrists. "Maybe I'm wrong; maybe the Joker _will_ let you out in a few hours. Until then, it's safest for you to stay in here."

"You want me to be safe?" Tears were welling in the corners of her eyes. Without her eyemask, as small as it was, she looked a lot more like a person rather than a crude character. It was easier to look at her face rather than at her body.

"I don't want another bloodbath," he said stiffly, unsure of how to get himself out of that accusation. With an obsessive personality like hers, the merest hint of morality could be misinterpreted as interest. He shuddered involuntarily.

Suddenly and without warning she hopped up onto her tiptoes, thrust her face through the bars and touched her lips to his. After a few seconds, he flinched away. He staggered backwards, swatting at his face.

"Don't act like it ain't nice, Puddin'." Her voice was a soft whisper. She was weak at the knees and wilting against the bars, almost swooning; a helpless, pathetic gesture he had seen her make many times in the Joker's company.

"Pull a stunt like that again, and I'll make sure you're stuck up in here permanently. Understand?"

Undeterred, she kissed her hand and blew the kiss at him. He turned his head in disgust.

"What happened just then?" Oracle, ever the voice in his head, had obviously heard a little more than he wanted her to.

"Nothing," he muttered, before adding "She tried to overpower me." He slipped up the stairs next to Harley's cell, away from her sight.

"Are you sure? It sounded a little…_odd_, if I'm honest." Was she goading him, or was that genuine concern?

"It's fine," he said tersely. With a swift movement he aimed and shot the Batclaw towards the railings, swiftly clawing his way up into the darkness and leaving the women in silence.


	2. The Gotham Tribune

**AN: Thank you to all of you for my great reviews. You've been so very kind. I hope you continue to enjoy the fic.**

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><p>OCL OS startup<br>userID: ORACLE  
>passkey: brucewayne -ACCEPTED<br>Files:open

- The Gotham Tribune – January Archives

**GOTHAM WELCOMES NEW FUTURE WITH OPEN ARMS**

A SPECIAL REPORT by JACK RYDER

IN THE EARLY HOURS of Tuesday morning, Gotham officials welcomed new Mayor Nathalie Lezaro into office, six months after the horrific events in Arkham City.

Following the events of the night of November 15th, which culminated in the subsequent resignation of Quincy Sharp, the oft-proclaimed 'cursed' position of Mayor has been left vacant.

Lezaro, pictured here with GCPD Commissioner James Gordon, was sworn into office following her successful "New Gotham" campaign and subsequent run for election, beating off stern competition.

Over the past few months Lezaro has become prominent as a humanitarian lawyer, in particular presiding over former Mayor Sharp's case, in which he pleaded severe mental illness as a result of his time in office.

"This is a finally a time for change," said Lezaro at her first public appearance on Thursday morning's press conference. "A chance for the people and Police of Gotham to restore their wounded city to its former glory."

When questioned regarding reports that masked vigilante Batman had contributed to the deaths of a number of Gotham's crime kingpins, most notably The Joker, she declined to comment. _Gotham __Tribune_ spoke to a member of the GCPD who did not want to be named:

"Batman carried Joker's body into Gotham, spoke to Commissioner Gordon and then disappeared. An armoured car came and took the body away. It was surreal. I didn't get a good look at the body, but the face looked terrible."

With the whereabouts of several of Joker's accomplices and high-profile villains unknown, Gotham's finest forces are combing the city.

"It will be a long time before Arkham City is fit for any kind of inhabitation," explained Commissioner Gordon at the conference. "But we are optimistic. Villains and criminals are running out of places to hide."

_For more of Jack Ryder's views, news and interviews tune in to The Jack Ryder Show, Wednesdays and Fridays exclusive to GMC._

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><p>"Babs? Are you there? Open up, it's me."<p>

Oracle wheeled around silently, tearing her tired eyes away from her computer screen. She peered through her wire-rimmed spectacles as if she could see through the armoured door of her lair. Finally, she pressed a button on the left-hand side of her curved desk and the heavy door slowly began to pull upwards. Her companion was instantly recognisable from his shoes and gait. She turned back to her computer and began to shut it down.

"You should know better than to be so loose-lipped, Dick." She eyed the closed security door. "There's no-one else here, but that doesn't mean you weren't followed."

Dick watched her arch her eyebrows and lay her slender hands on her thighs. She was dressed for the cold, although her shoulders were hunched together against it. Knowing her, she had probably been sat in her watchtower from evening until the early hours of this morning.

"I just wanted to see how you were." He drew a little closer to her, approaching the desk that curved around her wheelchair and leaning with his knuckles on the right side. "Anything interesting going on tonight?"

"Nothing besides the usual." She reached forward and turned off her monitor. "You were out late." The hint of a smile lingered on her thin lips. She brushed a few unruly curves behind her ear with her finger, then removed her headset.

"You were watching me?" Dick feigned flattery.

"Not _just_ you," Oracle replied, a little too quickly. Dick smirked to himself. "I was keeping an eye on Robin. He was staking out the Courthouse."

Dick was unsurprised. "I thought I told him to steer clear. Two-Face has the lion's share of the gangs now. And they're armed – though God knows where they got their weapons."

"Yes," mused Oracle. "God knows, indeed."

"Are you done here?" Dick gestured to the neat piles of printed reports on the right-hand desk in front of him. "I'll come back with you."

"Thanks, but I don't need an escort."

"I know you don't," he said impatiently, eager to cut through the chit-chat. "Come on, Babs. I just wanted to see you."

She turned to the left deliberately. "I thought we both decided against that." Her hair slipped from behind her pinkening ear, curtaining her face.

"At least come down with me." Dick was unrelenting.

He followed her as she began to deftly wheel herself towards the door. She leant forward and heavily slapped her hand against the identification panel. A cool blue light scanned her palm and the mechanisms of the door clunked to a slow start.

"Alright," she said, turning back to him, "I'm certainly not leaving you locked in here for the night. You may as well come with me."

Dick tried not to get too hopeful. They hadn't spoken about much other than business as usual since the New Year. He followed her out, his booted feet echoing on the iron runway. The wheels of her chair were as silent as a whisper.

"How was your night?" she asked, out of courtesy more than anything. She had been watching him for most of the time, but she wasn't about to admit it. The burgeoning blush on her face gave her away.

"Quiet," he said tersely as they entered the lift shaft. He leant over and pressed the terminal button and the lift juddered, and began to steadily decline. "Two-Face's mooks have overrun the Museum. There is little to no sign of Cobblepot anywhere."

Oracle smirked. The City had fared poorly since the election of the new Mayor, and the turf was being divided night by night. The police were unable to do much except border the city and try to permeate its stronghold, but it was like an impregnable cell: break its walls and the contents would rush around like fluid, causing the force to be pushed back into the borders. She knew her father had been growing increasingly tired, waiting for the shadow cast by the megalomaniac Sharp to dissipate. He was notably quiet whenever anyone asked about the new Mayor: whether it was the Press or his own daughter handling the questions.

"He'll be somewhere in the underground, licking his wounds." She thought of Robin and Batman, the insiders trying to contain the city internally, slowly breaking up the crime syndicates and forcing them towards the city's outskirts. It would work, if there weren't so many places for villains to flee.

"And how are you?"

Barbara knew the question was coming. "I'm fine, thank you."

"You've been fine since November," answered Dick quickly. "That's an awful long time to stay the same."

"I'm not the same," she snapped, turning to face him. As quickly as her anger had come it was gone, leaving embarrassment in its place. "I – you know how things have been."

"I refuse to believe you haven't been affected in any way," Dick said, looking her straight in the eye. She longed to look away but denied herself the action. "Everyone has. You, me, Tim, Bruce, all those people that died-"

"I _know_."

"That cure never got to the people fast enough," Dick said matter-of-factly. "Even if Talia had caught Quinn earlier."

"Well, we all know how that ended, didn't we?" Oracle said coldly. "If she had been a bit more succinct, rather than trussing up Joker's girlfriend like a Christmas present-"

"Have you spoken to Bruce since…" Dick didn't need to elaborate.

"No." Not for lack of trying, she thought. After the night of Protocol Ten, Bruce had returned to his resolute self, abandoning his temporary mantle of non-existential coldness.

The lift juddered to a halt and Barbara began to wheel herself out onto the exit landing, with merely a backwards glance at her companion.

"Can I come with you?" He asked from behind her. "I promise, as soon as you're home, I'll go."

She turned around to face him again, an incredulous look on her face. A shaft of light leaked through from the ajar exit door, illuminating her pale angular cheekbones and jawline. She looked quite striking. If Dick hadn't known her well, he might have been intimidated.

"Think of it as a favour to an old friend," he said, cocking his head. She could see the sincerity in his eyes, beyond his cowl and the shadows it cast upon his face.

"Fine," she said curtly, wheeling down to the door and prising it open. With a sigh, she said "And you needn't pretend it's a favour, either."

Dick smiled and followed her out into the cold morning.


	3. Note: Seems Distracted

It was getting late. Bruce could sense the time ebbing from the day like blood from a wound, despite the Batcave having no source of outside lighting. He couldn't rest yet: not until he had finished his work.

He stood back from his laboratory desk to afford himself a glance at the bigger picture. Methylate bubbled in a flask, letting out an acrid scent that began to penetrate the fabric of his fumes mask. Before his eyes the liquid began to coagulate, and to his disbelief, turn a murky brown.

"_Blast_."

With a pair of tongs, he lifted the flask from the tripod, placing it down on a cork mat. With a weary flick of his hand, he turned off the gas tap and the roar of the Bunsen burner fell silent. Another experiment, wasted.

It was too late to start something else, he told himself, even as he was opening the desk drawer and retrieving a vacuum-sealed bag. He looked at the discarded instrument inside with a mix of disbelief and curiosity. Where to begin with this? It would of course need a chemical analysis, to make absolutely sure that the DNA was a match.

Before he could tear the bag open, he heard the soft footfall on the stair, reminding him that now would be a sensible time to stop his experiments.

"How goes the antidote, Sir?"

Bruce sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Another failure, Alfred." He removed his safety gloves and slapped the down onto the desk. "I don't believe I can replicate the structure of the antidote without a sufficient sample of the infected blood."

"Perhaps you aught to retire for the night, Sir." Alfred's excellent posture gave him an air that was sincere rather than haughty. "And besides, I doubt that any villain will retry a scheme that led directly to the downfall of The Joker."

Bruce was undeterred. "There was plenty of Titan left around Arkham, waiting for someone to claim it."

"Was it not destroyed recently Sir? I believed you to be the proud owner of the last remaining specimen."

Alfred was a calm and measured man; something he had done well to pass onto his young ward ever since his duties had increased to Bruce's upbringing. His father had taught him that in times of dire need, a sharp wit and a calm head would be his only ally. There were certain things Alfred wished he could thank his father for, and his prescient gift was one of them. Calmness had been there when he had attended to the men from the trenches; screaming and covered in the red slick of life, limbs and muscles knotted or in worse cases, missing. His quick wit had put many a snooping eye off the course of finding Batman's true identity, and although his nerve had been worn thin as a hair when he had seen the broken body of his ward after an encounter with the madman Bane, it had not yet failed him.

Despite his wealth of knowledge, Alfred felt he aught to have known better than to question the young Master. Since his ordeal in the City, he had become distinctly more withdrawn. His handsome face was drawn, the skin of his cheeks hanging from the cheekbones like sheets draped lazily over a clothesline. It was sadly another thing he had encountered in the fallout of the war: although the bodies of some of the young men had repaired after the trauma of their battles, their minds never did. As Alfred moved, he felt the smart notebook in his pocket press against his ribs: he had been silently noting down Bruce's moods, hoping to decipher them. It was an offense that he was deeply ashamed of.

"I destroyed all that I found, plus Bane's personal stock. I believe there's no more out there, but I just want to be prepared."

"Foresight is a gift, Master Wayne," Alfred agreed.

"People are vulnerable enough without biological warfare," he reasoned through the scowl on his handsome face. "I don't want a repeat of what Joker tried to do to Jim."

"The very nature of The Joker's psyche was to prey on and exploit the weaknesses of others, with or without the aid of mutagenic chemicals," said Alfred sagely. "If anyone knows that, Sir, it is you."

Bruce smirked, but at the back of his mind there was a niggling thought, like an itch begging to be scratched.

"Alfred, while Joker favoured the exploitable-" The butler's grey, wiry eyebrows raised slightly, "Why do you suppose Joker kept the company of…certain individuals?"

"I'm afraid I don't know who you mean, Sir."

Bruce turned away from him and leant his fists on the laboratory table. This was a conversation he did not really want to have with Alfred, particularly if the butler was going to play ignoramus. He knew the man could see right through him.

"I'm talking about the psychiatrist, Doctor Quinzel. Better known nowadays as Harley Quinn." He sighed heavily through his nose.

"Harley Quinn, Sir?" mused Alfred. "Well, I presume that like most red-blooded males, he enjoyed a little female company from time to time." Alfred was in a rare, playful mood. "Need I remind you, Sir?"

_The __warm __skin __turning __cold. __The __pained __face __and __the __life __ebbing __away __from __her __eyes, __warm __blood __trickling __onto __his __black __glove __where __he __had __held __her._ Bruce shook his head viciously to purge the trauma from his mind. Now was not the time to process it.

"Aside from that," he said through tightly clenched teeth. "Do you think he had another purpose for her?"

Alfred thought for a moment, his neatly-trimmed brows almost knitting together. "This is the way I see it, Master Wayne. Do you recall the fall of Caesar?"

"He chose a man with a somewhat criminal past to lead his Senate." Bruce was getting a little impatient. This was not the time for a history lesson. "And he was assassinated for his troubles."

"Precisely, Master Bruce. If The Joker had picked a second-in-command from his group of ruffians, he runs the risk of backing the wrong candidate."

Bruce remembered the arrogant Frank Boles, who had quickly been disposed of once Joker had realized that he was leading Bruce to him. As he recalled the Asylum, an image came to his mind: Harley stretched out across the bars of her cell, blowing a kiss out of her hand. "And a woman who is infatuated with him to such an unstable degree would never betray him."

"Correct. Also, if Joker did happen to pick a trustworthy fellow, he might be assassinated in days."

Bruce nodded. "Joker's men would fall over themselves to become his second-in-command." He remembered again the jeers of the inmates: calling Harley a 'crazy bitch' or talking about her as if she were laid out in front of them like a meal on a table.

"Sad as it is to see in this day and age, Master Wayne, women are still believed to be inferior by some."

Something gave a weak pang in his chest, like an old wound. He stood up straight, matching the lofty height of his trusted butler. "Alfred, I think you're right. I should retire for the night. My work here is done – for now."

"Very good, Master Wayne. Am I to fetch you anything?"

"No thank you." Bruce began to climb the stairs.

Alfred had been taught never to meddle in his ward's affairs unless explicitly invited to do so. He had also been taught to walk as if wearing blinkers, like a fire brigade horse: always looking ahead at his Master, never rooting around in his Master's business. In all his years of caring for the man climbing the stairs, Alfred could say with almost a hint of his usually prohibited pride that he had never meddled wantonly in Bruce Wayne's affairs. But his eyes were immediately drawn to something that Bruce had left on the desk. His good long-distance vision confirmed that within the sealed bag was a pregnancy test, reading positive.

Bruce Wayne had reached the top of the stairs. He stopped briefly to consider the ache in his muscles and the weight of his heart.

"Good night, Master Wayne," said Alfred, without so much as a tremor in his voice that gave his concern away.

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><p><strong>AN: Thanks to everyone for your reviews, any feedback is encouraging! Next chapter is ready to go, so if I'm not too busy I'll have it up shortly after the weekend. xxx<strong>


	4. The New Iceberg Lounge

"Hey, there. You lookin' pretty. Very fancy. Boss'll like that, for sure."

The thug with the missing front tooth lay a thick, heavy hand on Misty's shoulder. She would have flinched, but the girls told her not to. _Let __them __touch __you __a __bit_, they'd said, _just __so __you __don__'__t __get __a __rep __as __being __frigid_.

"He better be happy we found him a London goil." Another brutish man wiped his nose on his sleeve. "We goin' up there soon? Fuckin' cold in here."

"We'll go when we're told," barked the first one, who was now eyeing Misty's legs. She angled a slender foot so that the front of her dress swung to the side, showing her shapely leg up to the middle of her thigh. She had been right to wear the slit-legged dress on her first night. None of the other girls had legs quite like hers. A filthy smile spread across the thug's face, and a dirty laugh gurgled in his muscular throat. Misty tilted her chin downwards and smiled coyly. _Keep__ '__em __on __your __side_, she remembered, _but __don__'__t __speak __unless __you__'__re __spoke __to_.

Misty wasn't a particularly bright girl, but she was good at following the rules. And although she'd heard them all trading dirty desires concerning Harley Quinn, she didn't want to be like her; too outspoken and bolshy with her skimpy outfit and her brash New York accent. Misty sniffed proudly. And they called _her_ a whore!

"Let's get a fuckin' move on," said the foul-mouthed guard again. "The Boss'll change his tune when we show 'im what we got for 'im."

"C'mon, babe." The first guard grabbed Misty by the crook of her slender arm. His strong grip hurt a bit, but she didn't make a sound. "You gonna meet the Boss."

This was it! This was finally Misty's moment. She'd known a lifetime of playing sweet and coy would turn out well for her. It turned out that sweet and coy was just what the Penguin wanted near him at the moment. She could hardly believe it when the Madam had said she'd got a chance to be one of the Penguin's escorts at the new Iceberg Lounge.

As she was led down the grand corridors, she could smell the dust and damp in the place. She'd always thought that the Lounge was in the old museum, but rumour had it that the whole building belonged to Two-Face. Misty had heard about Two-Face, and she was glad that he didn't demand women for company. She shuddered as she thought of the acid-scarred face.

"Aww, you cold, sweetheart?" The thug beside her mistook her shudder for a shiver. "You better get used to it."

She kept her silence and marched on in her heels, guided by the thugs, until they reached a big set of double doors. They looked like they had been carved out of an impressively large slab of mahogany. The second thug walked forward and knocked on the door.

"Boss? It's us. Can we c'min?"

"What?" Misty heard the reply, almost mistaking it for a squawk. "Whad'ya want? I'm _busy_."

The thug looked back at his accomplice, and at Misty. "We got that British boid you asked for."

A brief silence, during which Misty briefly wondered what would happen to her if Penguin didn't want her. Hopefully, it'd be back to the Madam. Maybe she'd be passed around the guards first, if she wasn't so lucky. They all looked mean, and the disgusting things she'd heard them say they would do to Harley Quin…She swallowed the lump in her throat hard.

"Bring 'er in."

Misty thanked whoever as the doors opened and she was walked in.

The huge circular room was adorned with chandeliers hanging from the roof like stalactites, giving off a frosty glow. Velvet drapes hung straight down, unmoving, from the arches. In the centre of the room, perched on a greying _chaise __longue_, was a short man in a moth-eaten tuxedo. He was squinting at his right hand, which was busy unravelling a bandage that was wrapped around the fingers on his left.

The thugs came to a stop about ten feet in front of the gilded chair. Misty felt the burly crook release her arm as they both stood in front of the Penguin, blocking her from view with their considerable bulks. Misty could just see the Penguin through the gap.

Penguin finished unravelling the bandage, which to Misty's disgust had got browner with stale blood as it unravelled, and cast it aside.

"Ugh," grunted Penguin with a throat full of phlegm. His eyeglass – _was __it __real?_ – glimmered as he tilted his head up.

"Look a' this," he growled at his mooks, holding up his hand to reveal a stump where the middle finger once had been. It was healed over with stretched white scar tissue, and still had a bloody crust around it as if it had been clumsily hacked off. The other fingers looked beaten and crooked. Misty squeezed her eyes shut in horror as the Penguin brandished it wildly at his henchmen. "I can't even _facking __swear __no __more!_"

He turned to the thug on the right, the one that had initially eyed up Misty. "You see that? That Bat wanker did that to me. Broke my bloody 'and. Had to lop that one off 'cause it went all green and nasty in the bandage." Misty nearly threw up. "When I catch 'im I'm gonna fackin' take both of his knackers."

Misty swallowed again. She was a little thankful for the mooks in front of her. True to his name, Penguin was a short, stout, waddling little fellow; he and the dusty surroundings made Misty feel like the cleanest thing for miles.

"Wha'f you brought me then, lads?" He grunted at them, pointing with his bad hand. Misty ignored the stump as much as she possibly could. It was like trying to ignore a beacon in the middle of a field. "I 'ope you got what I asked for."

The thugs stepped aside. The first one clapped her roughly on the buttock and pushed her forward. She almost stumbled in her heels, her calves shaking, but she kept herself upright. She stretched up and leant on one hip, angling her chin down, pointing her chest forward. Her fingers twitched as she tried not to cross them.

The Penguin's chapped lips twisted into a smile. "Well," he mused, "You're a pretty one, aint'cha?"

Unsure how to reply to that comment, Misty flashed him a soft smile and a girlish, nasal giggle.

"Wha's yer name?" he grunted, sitting himself heavily back down and stretching behind the chaise longue. He produced a thin silver case, opened it carefully and extracted a cigar that was thicker than any of Misty's fingers. He jammed it between his teeth, and groped in his inside pocket for a matchbook.

"Mmmisty," she said, with the emphasis on the first letter of her name, tossing her auburn curls back with a flick of her head. Penguin's eyes went from her slender neck down to her breasts, eventually resting on the top of her exposed thigh. He either grinned or grimaced as he exhaled a fug of smoke. It was rather hard to tell.

"And you're from London, eh?"

"I am, Sir." Misty looked his straight in his good eye. She blithely the other eye, once she had recognised with horror a bottle wedged into the skin around the other eye socket. It seemed there would be quite a few parts of her new employer she'd have to ignore. A rivulet of plaster dust suddenly cascaded from the ceiling, somewhere above the Penguin's head.

"_Sir_." Echoed Penguin. "Nice and polite. She's a good girl ain't she?"

The mooks chuckled darkly. Misty pouted, her cheeks flushing.

"C'n you make drinks?" he barked.

Misty nodded.

The Penguin frowned. "Speak to me when I ask you a question," he barked. "Don't be so bloody rude. I wanna hear your accent. Reminds me of my boy'ood," he crooned.

"I can make drinks for you, Sir." She spoke in a measured, sultry tone.

"How 'bout my clientele?" He spoke the French word with no semblance of an accent. It was almost jarringly funny. "I want you to make their drinks and bring 'em over to 'em. Can you manage that?"

"Happily, Sir."

"Well done boys," said the Penguin, sitting up and tipping his little legs over the side of the chaise longue. "Looks like you finally did sam'ink right."

As he turned his back, Misty saw the mooks exchange a triumphant look. One of them cleared his throat. "Unh, Boss? We also got the other stuff you wan'ed."

The Penguin froze. He turned slowly and menacingly on his heel. His eyes flickered from his subordinates to Misty, and then back again.

"You better show me quick." Penguin beckoned him forward with the hand holding his cigar. He looked at Misty. "Why don't'cha go stand over there." He gestured to the wall by Misty's right. Obediently she took a few steps out of the way, and perched delicately on a chair. She swept the gold fabric of her dress away from her legs, giving her new employer a clear shot of her supple thighs. Sure enough, he glanced over a couple of times as the thugs produced a suitcase and laid it on the bottom of the chaise longue. She averted her gaze so as not to be nosey, but she heard the clasps on the suitcase open. As the Penguin chuckled gleefully, she could swear she saw a velvet curtain twitch. She blinked her eyes back into focus. It must have been a trick of the light.

"That's loverly!" Penguin was laughing with gusto. "An' you nicked it from right under Dent's rotten nose?"

"Yeah, Boss," said the foul-mouthed thug. "I done it myself. Single-handedly."

Misty's head snapped back to the Penguin. The air in the room became as tight as a drum.

"What'd you say?" growled Penguin hoarsely.

The thug began to panic. "I – I didn't mean nothin' by it, Boss," he stuttered. "It's just a phrase."

With reflexes that seemed unnatural for such a rotund, hunchbacked man, Penguin reached inside his suit and produced a small handgun. He aimed right at the thug's vest-clad torso. A sharp shot rang out, and the thug crumpled to the floor. Misty made a sound halfway between a gasp and a squeal.

"That'll teach the lot of you," panted Penguin, as if the force of the bullet was a cause of exertion; "To _watch __your __fackin__' __mouths_!"

There was a crash and a tinkle of metal on the floor, and burst of smoke rushed out from the centre of the room. For a surreal moment, Misty thought that her employer had set himself alight with a cigar. A shadow dropped nimbly in front of her, and she heard the thud of a fist on a skull.

Loudly, she screamed in terror.

"There's someone over here," cried the loud but youthful voice of the shadow in front of her. Misty scrambled to her feet, but teetered on her high heel. She fell arms outstretched towards the floor, but was stopped by a firm arm wrapping around her waist. Someone strong flung her up into their arms as if she was a ragdoll.

There was a loud noise and a jerking sensation as she and her captor was pulled suddenly upwards. Pressing herself against a strong armoured chest, she screamed right into the captor's ear.

"Shh," a stern, deep voice hushed. "You'll be fine. Hold on."

She clung for dear life to the strong arms of her captor, squishing her eyes shut, getting jostled about and hearing muffled yells and assorted banging noises. Her bare shoulders could sense the air becoming colder as they seemed to descend upwards. Suddenly she heard glass smash nearby, showering her with shards like tiny knives, and adrenaline forced her eyes open.

She was suddenly dropped to her feet and grabbed around the waist. As she turned her neck to face her captor, a kind of elated fear gripped her as she recognised the black cowl.

"Hold on to me," barked the man she recognised as Batman. He looked out across the horizon, raised his opposite arm and something shot out of the wristguard of his glove. Misty jumped, but she looked through the eye slits of the cowl and saw a pair of brown eyes. At least he looked human.

Suddenly they swung off of the side of the building. Misty almost felt her insides being left behind, and she whooped right into Batman's ear. If her screams had hurt, he didn't flinch. They landed upright on an opposite building, and Misty's knees buckled a bit before she staggered upright.

Batman put both arms on her shoulders and gently helped her regain her balance. "Are you alright, Miss?"

"Y-yes," she stammered, looking at the sculpted chin flecked with dark stubble, and the muscular arms holding her steady. She'd heard some of the girls speak about Batman before, but she knew now that they were lying when they said they'd seen him in the flesh: they had said he was just a man in a suit. He looked like much more than a man. She looked him up and down and was almost overwhelmed by the strong sense of power that emanated from him.

Someone else landed next to them, making her jump and wheel around. The source of the noise was a fierce-looking youth with a neatly shaven head. He didn't look much younger than Misty herself, and he was carrying the briefcase that the thugs had offered Penguin.

"Where did you come from, and what were you doing with the Penguin?" He asked her, a little bluntly.

"That's none of your business." She folded her slender arms and leaned a little closer to Batman.

"I think you'll find it is." He squared his shoulders haughtily. "If it wasn't for us, you'd be dead by now."

"I would not!" Misty threw her hair out of her face. "I was _gonna_ be a waitress!"

The boy scoffed. Batman stepped neatly around Misty, and came between the two of them. "Stop it," he said sternly. Both of them turned away from each other. Batman walked a few paces across the roof of the building, checking the other side. Misty wrapped her arms around herself, shivering as the cold fog stroked her bare skin.

Batman turned to her. "Miss, if you'll follow us down the other side of this building, we will deliver you back into Gotham."

"What?" she said. "Back to Gotham?" Now that she had been forcibly liberated from Penguin's employ, she had nowhere to go. The Madam wouldn't take her back, out of fear of being traced by Penguin and subsequently terrorised. There was nobody else that wanted or even needed a twenty-something bit of arm decoration like her, especially not while she'd been reputed as one of Penguin's girls. She'd never be any gangster's girl after a title like that. Nobody would dare piss him off.

"Yes," he said flatly. "You'll get a police escort back into the City."

"Police escort?" She echoed in horror. "Are you crazy?"

Batman said nothing, and she was intimidated into silence. With seemingly no other choice, she and the youth walked towards the opposite side of the roof with him.

"Robin," said Batman to the youth, "When we get to street level, please make sure that the suitcase is delivered to Commissioner Gordon personally."

"I will." The youth crouched down near the ledge of the building, gripped the side and flung his legs over. Misty gasped, but she heard his boots connect with metal: there was a steel staircase only a few feet below. Batman slipped over after his ward, and held out his arms to her. She tilted her head, thinking it over, before leaning forward, taking his arm and stepping down. It was either go with him or stay on the roof, stuck in Arkham City. The best choice was him – for now. Perhaps he was telling the truth; maybe she would just get dropped back into Gotham. Then she could start again.

The three of them had just descended the first set of stairs when Misty saw the sirens come blazing down the alley like wildfire. To her surprise, a GCPD car drove straight into the alley and parked just below the bottom of the fire escape. Her heart dropped to her feet as she saw the officers step out, in full body armour, handcuffs gleaming on their belts. That was what awaited her – a cell with her name on it, and nobody to spring her out of it. She began to pant.

"What?" growled Robin. "They're not supposed to meet us here! It's too far close to Penguin!"

If Batman was as surprised as Robin, he didn't show it. Misty looked at him: he had this planned this out from the start, didn't he? And he was meant to be the hero who had rescued her; admittedly from a life of being passed from man to man like a toy until she lost her looks at thirty or so, but he had released her into a world where she would be hustled from prison right back onto the streets.

The three of them stopped on the iron landing, about four flights up, and Batman glared down at the officers below. Robin was right, it was too close. And what was Gordon playing at? This part of the City was unsecure and dangerous, even for the police. _Especially_ for the police.

Suddenly, there was a muffled cry and a flash of glittering gold on his right side. Before either man could react, they saw before them the terrified face of the girl whirling down into the darkness, her gown twisting in the night air like a cobweb on the breeze, before she hit the unforgiving black ground with a sickening crunch.

Without hesitation Batman vaulted the barrier and landed almost noiselessly next to her crumpled body. Blood seeped out from behind her head, and her glassy eyes were wide open, staring unseeingly up at the falling snow. Both police officers raced over to her body. Batman took her slender wrist and wordlessly felt for a pulse, although he could see the telltale protruding vertebrae in the side of her neck. Robin landed swiftly next to him, looking down at Misty's body with an expression of blatant shock.

"What happened, Batman?" asked one of the younger officers. "Is she dead?"

Batman looked up at the officers. He didn't need to say a word. The older officer plucked his radio from his belt and began to mutter into it.

"Did she fall?" asked Robin incredulously.

Batman looked up at his young ward, and saw the raised eyebrows above his mask. For a young man who appeared to be so tough, Tim Drake hadn't seen as much needless death as he had. There was still a fascinated dread in his eyes.

"I believe she jumped," he replied.


	5. The Office of Mayor N Lezaro

"As flattered as I am by my inclusion on your talk show, I'm afraid I'm not at any liberty to discuss police activity, let alone these rumours of yours, Mr. Ryder."

"Isn't it time for the truth to come out, Jim?" Jack Ryder was a relentless man. James Gordon knew he would not stop until his subject buckled. Jack Ryder possessed all of the enthusiasm and vigour that he had as a young rookie, and sadly Gordon had been wrong when he thought that the years would blunt Ryder's tongue. "Don't you think you _owe_ it to Gotham?"

The tape paused, lining the two men with white static. There was a knock on the office door. A slender, well-manicured hand placed the remote control onto a mahogany desk.

"Come in."

Nathalie Lezaro's burgeoning career in politics had shot up in the past few months, and such a flower blooming in adversity was a marvel to both her office and the Gotham public. She had a clipped, official tone; full of measured optimism that contained itself within each word. She had that special kind of youthful, intimidating beauty that would compel people to listen to her as soon as she began talking. Her voice was almost masculine in the way it filled any space: from her office to a large conference centre with barely any use for a microphone.

James Gordon swung the heavy oak door open and stepped neatly into the office. He took one look at the Mayor and realised he probably needed a shoeshine. She was immaculate in appearance; from her unblemished skin to her flatly ironed stone-grey blouse. Today, he had a head as thick as the wooden door that swung shut behind him, as a result of the numbers and statistics swirling around in his head. The most worrying statistic was the amount of hours' sleep he had enjoyed over the past week: it was a single-digit figure.

"Ah, Commissioner. It is good to see you this evening. Although it is a little late: aren't you on your way home?"

Gordon wasn't sure if he was being interrogated, or if his new boss was making small talk. "I won't be around much longer. I just wanted to deliver you a few things." He raised his arm and waved a bundle of papers in a manila folder. "I'm just the messenger."

Lezaro circled her desk quietly in her court heels, before sitting down in her armchair. Gordon walked closer to the desk, framed by bookshelves on either side. Lezaro's slight form was cast in shadow by the dominating window behind her. He was always warily watching that window, and he had never been sure whether its installation was a very good idea.

"I've just been watching you on our friend Mr Ryder's talk show," said Lezaro slowly. Gordon winced. He thought he had recognised the audio as he had been walking up to the office. He had heartily disagreed with the decision made by the young upstart that fronted Ms Lezaro's PR: talk shows were not a platform for politics.

"I am pleased with the way you handled the questions," Lezaro said, folding her slender fingers together. "Although I am not happy with the idea of sending a police commissioner into the world of light entertainment."

Gordon was a little surprised to find she agreed with him. Perhaps she was not as naïve as he had first thought. Meetings with her were always uncomfortable. After Professor Strange's public betrayal of Sharp's administration, wherein it transpired that he had manipulated a sick and vulnerable man, the Press had kick-started a campaign to report everything as quickly and candidly as possible. _Gotham deserves the truth_, they said. Gordon resented the implication that the Police Force were liars: certainly members of the Force were not as truthful as he would like, but like the solemn voice of a parent the GCPD had always told Gotham exactly what it needed to know. No more, no less. The campaign was, _naturally_, fronted by Jack Ryder, a man who was rapidly becoming a Messiah in the eyes of the people. From afar, Gordon pitied him: it was a wonderful and terrible title to hold.

"Thank you," he said respectfully to the Mayor. "I appreciate your honesty."

"As I appreciate yours." Lezaro did not seem to stop looking him straight in the eye. It was a very good political tactic: whether you were lying or telling an absolute truth, it could be used to intimidate your opponent into believing what you wanted them to.

"May I ask you a question regarding the state of our Arkham City, Commissioner?" She held her gaze.

Gordon looked straight back. Her gray eyes were shining with the light emanating from the television set. They looked like beads of glass, like the marbles he had played and bartered with as a young boy in the playground.

"Certainly, Ms Mayor."

Lezaro smiled warmly, a burst of exhalation escaping her nostrils. She collected herself and drew the chair back from the desk, placing her hands on the mahogany.

"I would like to ask you about the occupation of Arkham City."

It was all Gordon could do not to roll his eyes. This was ahead of schedule: she knew that it was too early expect such a report back just yet. There was no way that the Police could infiltrate a city still swarming with criminals without expecting a massacre.

"We are still combing the outskirts of the city," he intoned. "Although we know where Oswald Cobblepot is. He's hoping to open a new Iceberg Lounge."

"Can we cart him in for setting up a nightclub?" asked Lezaro, stroking the mahogany with her fingertips.

"We can bring him into remand for two counts of gun-running. He's been helping himself to munitions from the locker of the defunct GCPD building for the past few months. My best squad are hoping to move in on him as soon as they can infiltrate the city borders."

Lezaro's neat eyebrows had raised at the mention of the old Police headquarters. "And how did you come to know that Mr Cobblepot was stealing from the GCPD building? Is there any CCTV footage? Eyewitness reports?"

Gordon didn't think she would like what he was about to say. She was, as he had heard some of his colleagues say, 'from out of town', and it was always hard to explain this certain phenomenon to people who were not native to Gotham.

"There was a reliable witness. It was Batman."

Gordon watched the woman with interest as she sat back, her nails scraping the varnish. "You heard from the Batman?"

"Yes. I-"

"Commissioner," said Lezaro sharply, "I must insist on asking you a question that I don't think you will care for."

"Yes, Ms. Mayor." Gordon sucked in his dry bottom lip. His moustache tickled the patch of rough, unshaven skin above the cleft of his chin. He was tired and starving, and the two warring factors were making him impatient.

"Does the Batman ever partake in…Mayoral visits?"

Gordon wasn't expecting the question. He watched the Mayor for a sign that she, like many other women of Gotham, was infatuated with the symbolism of Batman. His heart dropped a little: he was hoping for a little professionalism instead of churlish infatuation. If women weren't swooning over Batman, they were following him into the line of duty, meddling in his business at great personal cost. He frowned. Barbara was probably still in her watchtower now, even as they spoke.

"I'm sure you think I'm a fool to concern myself with a reputedly dangerous vigilante, Commissioner, especially since a meeting with him is likely to place me in a vulnerable position."

"I had no such thought," lied Gordon. Lezaro's eyelids flickered, and then she took in a deep breath.

"I simply believe that Batman has been into the City in great depth. I was wondering if he would like to come and make an addendum or two to our little map."

She swept a drawer open with a flick of her nimble wrist, and pulled out a thin roll of paper fastened at each end by paperclips. She snapped the clips off of each end and with her small, delicate hands she stretched the paper out across the desk. It was a map of the city: in fact, it was the very same blueprint he had seen permanently stretched out across Sharp's desk while he had been in office. It now bore circles and marks all over it in Lezaro's handwriting.

"Do you think you could arrange a meeting for me?"

Internally, Gordon sighed. It was long past the end of his shift, and he aught to be on his way home to Sarah and his cooked dinner by now. She would start to worry. Every night she cooked dinner ready for half an hour after his shift, so he could come straight home and enjoy it when he arrived. By the time she had to consider re-heating it, she would start to worry. He knew she tried to hide her concern, but as a result of her nervousness her appetite died and she was slowly losing weight. His wife was a handsome woman, but that amount of weight loss didn't look well on a woman her age. Perhaps he aught to encourage Barbara to stay home more often, to support her mother.

"I believe I can contact the Batman regarding your wishes," he said, treading carefully around a direct agreement. "However I think you will find him a difficult target to pin down."

"Did he ever meet with my predecessor?"

Gordon let out a low, throaty laugh. Lezaro raised her eyebrows.

"I apologise, Ms Mayor. I believe Batman discovered Mr Sharp attempting to flee Arkham City on November fifteenth; and subjected him to a little interrogation." He smirked.

"Don't toy with me, Commissioner." Lezaro sounded sincere, but there was a smirk on her thin lips, mirroring his. "What do you mean by 'interrogation'? I'm assuming you don't mean the kind appropriated by your team, down at the station."

Gordon nearly laughed aloud. If she knew what the boys sometimes got up to in the interrogation rooms, she would fire every last one of them. He himself turned a blind eye to the beatings certain prisoners received as an induction: a lot of his squad had friends that had perished on Arkham Island. It's not that he believed knocking grunts around achieved much, but he needed to keep morale up somehow.

He looked at Lezaro. Sure, she was shaping up to be a slightly more level-headed boss than Sharp – she didn't sweat nearly half as much, he knew that for a fact – but if she wanted to play a game of twenty questions with an old cop, he figured he wouldn't need to hold back. "I believe he held Sharp over a fifty foot drop by his braces."

Lezaro looked shocked. "No! The man's sick!"

"With respect, are you referring to Batman or Sharp?" Gordon practically grinned.

"Commissioner," said Lezaro sternly, "If the Batman were to agree to meet with me, I trust that you will provide adequate protection."

"Of course." His moment of frivolity over, Gordon was back to business. His face set back into its mould of sternness, and his headache returned to dull fuzz somewhere deep in his eye sockets.

"Thank you, Commissioner." Lezaro stood up from her desk, and offered him her small hand. He took it in his and shook it, finding the skin ridged and cold. At least it was better than Sharp's clammy folds.

With one last sweeping glance out of the window at the sleeping heart of Gotham, Gordon turned away from the Mayor and her desk and laid his hand on the brass doorknob of the office.

"Pass my greetings on to your wife and daughter, Commissioner," said the Mayor as he left the room.

Gordon thanked her and left. That was a nice touch: Sharp never even acknowledged that Gordon was married. Jim raised his eyebrows. She had professionalism and a human touch, even if she was a little ambitious. Ambition could go a long way in a city like Gotham, as long as it was focused in the right direction. Perhaps she wasn't as useless as he thought she was, after all.

* * *

><p><strong>Quick AN: Thank you all for bearing with me - family matters have delayed the story a bit. Merry Christmas to all, and may you not be kicked in the face by the Goddamn Batman!<strong>


	6. The Gordon Household

"There, see? I saw you home, and now I'll be on my way. A promise is a promise."

"Alright, Dick," said Barbara with a smile and a gentle sigh, "Thank you, although you really didn't have to see me back. I _do_ know how to get home."

"I know you do," said Dick gently, his hand resting lightly on the right handlebar of her wheelchair. Despite the biting cold over Gotham that kept inactive muscles on edge, her forearms were getting tired. She wheeled up the pavement to the gate by her family home.

"Well," she said, turning towards him at the gate. "Obviously, this is me."

They stood there in the cold, illuminated by the first pale and sickly rays of daylight. Despite having said their goodbyes, neither of them were ready to move. It was an uncomfortable pause.

"Right." Dick shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He knew it was getting into the early hours of the morning, and it wouldn't do for Nightwing to be seen in public: especially not if he was anywhere near the Police Commissioner's house.

It was fortunate that they both had such acute hearing, because they both noticed the scratching of the key in the Gordons' front door. Before Barbara could even hiss a warning at her team-mate, he had hopped up onto the rickety fence and before the rotting wood gave way he sprung towards the drainage pipe mounted on the outside wall. She prayed that the structure would hold fast as Dick placed his foot on it, and leaned upwards. The outside bedroom window was open barely an inch. Dick squeezed his fingers into the gap and pried it wide open before slipping inside like a shadow.

"Barbara?"

Oracle turned her chair towards the front door, her wheels and her eyes rolling. "I'm sorry, Mom. I was hoping you and Dad were sleeping. What are you doing up so early?"

"I could ask the same of you, young lady." Sarah Gordon folded her arms across her chest. The skin on her arms was hanging loose where the muscle was beginning to waste.

"Go inside Mom, before you freeze." Barbara began to wheel her way up the pathway to the door. Her mother hurried out and positioned herself behind her daughter, taking the handlebars and pushing her in.

The inside of the house was as warm as it was in summer, and Barbara silently thanked her father's income. They were one of the few households she knew of that were able to keep their heating maintenance bills up to scratch. She could smell in the air the aroma of meat cooked to tender perfection: her father must not have made it home in time for dinner.

"Is Dad home?" she asked, wondering if he had stayed late at the office. Very late at the office, in fact.

"He's upstairs, sleeping like a baby." Sarah sighed. She could never quite achieve the depths of sleep to which her husband was now happily confined.

A lump appeared in Babs' throat. If Dick made too much of a noise up there, he would give himself away. She didn't want to have to explain why she was concealing her ex-fiancé in her bedroom. It had been hard enough having to move back into her parents' home after the raid on her apartment building some months back. The combination of her mother's horror when she found out that her daughter's home was to become part of the newly-dubbed 'Arkham City', along with City Hall's long unfulfilled promise to find her a new accessible apartment had been enough to press Babs into taking the spare room at her parents'. Luckily, the old Bell Tower was still hers, and at least this way she was slightly closer to it.

"I might go on up and change." She wheeled out of the hallway, and headed towards the small lift cubicle that had been installed for her visits. At least the City council had paid for something, she thought.

"Do you want anything to eat?" Sarah was on her way to the kitchen. "Your father wasn't hungry last night, so you can always have meatloaf for breakfast." She chuckled at the idea.

As much as Barbara's stomach objected, she guessed she had better eat something. She hadn't had anything since lunchtime yesterday. Quite often her work was so absorbing that the sheer density of it weighing on her mind would suppress her appetite.

"I'll have something when I come down," she promised, shutting the small door of the terminal and pressing the 'Up' button.

She opened the door of her room to find Dick sitting politely on the end of her bed, like a patient guest at a dinner party. His Nightwing uniform was nowhere to be seen.

She extended a finger and shook it at him. "You've got some nerve, Dick Grayson-"

"There was nowhere else to go!" he hissed, raising his arms in a shrug. "I saw your window was open, so I took the opportunity." He stood up, walked over to the window and closed it again. "As a matter of fact Babs, if I were you, I wouldn't leave this window open at all. If I can get in, imagine who-"

"Yes," she seethed through her teeth, "Thank you, Dick."

Dick went and sat down on the edge of the bed again, deflated. "I'm sorry. You're going to think this is all so contrived. That I accompanied you home so I could sneak in your room."

Despite her frustration, Babs laughed. She wasn't really angry with Dick. She could pin her annoyance down to being tired and hungry, but any residual anger died before it could find its feet.

Dick was gazing around at the room; the barren walls, the plain drapes, the simple bedding. "I like what you've done with the place."

She knew he was only joking, but his comment brushed against a nerve. She couldn't bring herself to change much of her parents' spare room. Although she was a guest, she felt like an intruder: her poor parents had already had their daughter move out once, and now she was back again, disrupting any time they had to enjoy the fruits of their long marriage together without the distraction of children.

"Babs," Dick began, and from his nervous tone she could sense what was coming; "Why don't you come and stay with me for a while? Or Bruce, perhaps," he added as a reluctant afterthought. "Only if you want to, of course. It's always an option if you fancy a bit of, uh, privacy."

"Thanks," she said with a shake of her head. Her hair slinked down her shoulders like lounging snakes. "I'll consider it."

Deep down, she knew she probably wouldn't. While it was tempting to take either of her friends' offers, both were laden with possible pitfalls. If she went to stay with Bruce, the guilt of burdening him and Alfred would drive her wild, not to mention how Dick would suffer at the thought of his ex-fiancée living with his best friend. But if she stayed with Dick, they would spend the time edging politely around each other. At least with her parents, all she had to worry about was pretending to get home at a reasonable hour.

"I should really go." Dick shuffled towards her on the bed, disturbing her bedcovers. She could tell he was hanging on to the moment for as long as he could, and she tried to figure out if she was doing the same.

"And I need to change," she said, in a kind attempt to let him know that she wasn't just kicking him out.

Dick suddenly reached forwards, and took her by the hand. She looked up into his handsome, youthful face: lines of worry were beginning to form on his brow. His jet black hair fell habitually into his eyes. He always seemed to wait as long as possible to get it trimmed.

"Barbara," he said softly, looking into her eyes. She felt as if he was boring into her brain. "I don't want you to change. You know the way I feel about you, and I promised I would be patient." He thought for a moment before adding; "And I am." He paused, scanning her every facial nuance. "Aren't I?"

"Dick," she said, trying to hide the exasperated humour in her voice, "I meant my clothes. I need to change _clothes_."

Dick choked out a laugh. "Oh," he sighed, "Oh. I – I thought you meant – something else."

They both laughed softly, holding one another's hand. Barbara smiled up at him through her curls: the first smile she could remember enjoying for a long while. She was surprised the muscles in her face didn't spasm from the sudden effort.

"Maybe you're right, Dick." She looked away from him, unable to keep it up any more. "Maybe I could stand to be a little…less self-absorbed." She wasn't sure whether she aught to be saying this. She shouldn't stall Dick for much longer: he had things to do. Selfishness was a luxury she didn't believe she could afford.

"You're not self-absorbed." Dick's thumb idly caressed the back of her hand. She couldn't help but notice the warmth spreading from the inside of her ribcage, as if her heart was able to radiate heat, and she wondered if it was always this nice to have someone so near. And then, as if she was dropping down a unseen well in the ground, she remembered why she had sent Dick on his way: she knew why Bruce was becoming so drawn into himself, why he was short with everyone around him. She could imagine the bitter taste in his mouth and the pain in his heart, sprung from the loss of the woman that he loved.

Dick knew he really aught to go, but he was beyond thrilled that the normally emotionally measured woman in front of him was allowing him to hold her hand and caress it. He longed to reach out and tuck a strand of hair gently behind her ear, perhaps leading into a touch upon the soft pale cheek, followed by them both leaning forwards and gently kissing. Dick wasn't sure if he _could_ kiss her gently: there was so much urgency contained in the very marrow of his bones that it threatened to push him forward and steal the kiss he was working so hard to secure. But maybe if he made the first step towards leaving, she would see how much he had matured.

He stood up slowly and reluctantly let go of her hand. "I'll let you get on with your day." No more _I shoulds_ and _we can'ts_.

Barbara watched him reach under the bed for his backpack, and the warmth in her heart suddenly cooled and turned to a heavy substance like lead that threatened to tear it from its place in her ribcage, and send it plummeting through her body like a stone.

"Alright," she said quietly, half-listening for her mother downstairs.

Dick crossed to the windowsill and perched on the corner. He leant on the window until it opened as wide as it would go. A chill came blowing in; Barbara huddled her shoulders against it. Dick had to pretend he hadn't noticed, or he would run the risk of getting painfully close to her again.

"Promise you'll shut the window after I'm gone?" he asked.

Barbara nodded.

"And will you at least consider taking me up on my offer?" He swung one trousered leg out of the window and shuffled his rear towards the drop below.

"I will," she said, looking away. Perhaps she would consider it; especially if her mother kept up her nervous pattern of over-cooking and under-eating. It was obviously too much for her, having an extra person in the house to worry about as well as the stresses of an over-working husband. She hadn't really stopped to consider the whole picture before, and she was appalled at herself. It was no good watching Gotham like a hawk if she couldn't keep an eye on her own mother.

Dick noticed that she was looking idly at the door of her wardrobe, lost in her thoughts, so he took that moment to quietly slip away. He gripped the roof above him, and with a a graceful backwards somersault, he was up on the top of the building, and before he could stop himself he was gripping those roof tiles so hard in his grief and desire that they snapped off and crumbled in his hands. He looked down at the red dust on his palms and sighed, scattering it over his trousers.

Barbara came quietly out of her thoughts, but Dick had gone. At first she was bemused - how had he done that so quietly? – and then she was filled with something so overwhelming that it laboured her breathing.

She wheeled over the window and pulled it shut. Dick heard the closing of the window from three rooftops away, and he used it as a cue to propel his jump to the ground. He hit the pavement feet first with nothing but a crunch of gravel, straightened up and began to walk home, as if he had been just another pedestrian all along.

_They are both such idiots, and they know it_, mused Sarah Gordon, from her post a few inches from Barbara's door.


	7. 228 West Alberton Street

All was quiet, apart from the soft swaying of the vines. They nuzzled against each other, entwining and separating, making the soft sound of bonding. The very earth was pulsating with heat and life below the soft pad of the woman's feet.

Ivy knew there was someone in her garden. Someone who was not wholly under her influence, in among the plant pods that could hold a fully-grown male in stasis for as long as she needed: as long as they were connected to her. There was someone close by, and they weren't being very careful to hide themselves.

She shut her eyes and listened. Their heartbeat was seeping into the fertile ground through their unsteady feet and legs. She could feel the grass twisting under their weak ankles. She could smell the woman's scent signature in the air. Instinctively she parted her lips and her greying tongue darted out.

"Hello, sweetheart…" she soothed.

The silence was interrupted by a gasp. The vines stopped their writhing and hung still in the air.

"Shh-hh-hh…" Ivy soothed as the woman began to sob.

Ivy opened her eyes, and surveyed the desperate figure in front of her. "Darling," she soothed, as she dropped gracefully to her knees in the grass next to the traumatized young woman, greeting her with a slender hand on her shaking shoulder.

With her every nerve on edge, Harley felt Ivy draw closer, take her head in her cool hands and press it against her chest like a beloved possession. Ivy's heartbeat was unnaturally fast; more like a fast hum than the laboured ticks and tocks of a normal human's. Harley's weeping eyes stung as if the lids were fixing themselves together.

Despite her outwardly calm demeanour, Ivy was unsure how to convey her sentiments to her friend. On one hand, she knew how much Harley had loved the same man that had scorned her over and over again. On the other, she had longed to free the naïve woman from her often deadly obsession with The Joker. Perhaps, with him well and truly out of the way, this was her chance.

Harley groaned and squirmed. It was becoming painful for her to crouch down. One leg slipped from underneath her, and she lowered herself onto the grass.

Ivy hesitated. Something in the atmosphere was different; a brand new pattern in the pheromone signature just waiting to be figured out. As Harley raised her head and slipped onto her side, Ivy used her thumb to flick away a beady tear. Harley's bloodshot blue eyes gazed up at her with a mixture of adoration and fear. Without breaking the eye contact, Ivy raised the thumb to her lips and took in the salty liquid.

Harley was panting, uncomfortable. She stretched both legs out in front of her to alleviate the pain in her back. Her chest ached from the heavy breathing and sobbing and there was an un-ignorable weight pressing on her ribcage. Ivy pushed a clump of tangled blonde hair out of Harley's face, matted with tears and grease. Her hand travelled down the slender neck, and her eyes took in the stained shirt that Harley had dressed herself in. It had once been a man's shirt. She noticed the tattered, harlequin-striped leggings as her hand travelled down along the woman's stomach.

Harley began to cry as Ivy's hand passed over the shirt. She began to sob at the spark of recognition in Ivy's eyes. In the passing of a moment, Ivy coursed through denial to despair, empathy and anger. Her black, bark-like fingernails bit angrily into the fabric, framing the protruding skin. Both women's limbs were trembling with equal parts fear and anger.

Ivy couldn't spit out the words. She half expected bile to ooze out from between her lips. Her clawed hand was pressing down harder still; she couldn't help herself in her blind fury. The vines behind them were slapping violently against the wall as if swayed by a fierce breeze.

Harley suddenly yelped as Ivy's force became too much to bear, her sharp nails causing grooves on the skin under the fabric and the pressure against her growing child too much to take. She felt the urge to urinate, and instinctively she picked herself up and darted backwards. She covered her stomach with a possessive hand.

Ivy glanced down at her own hand. She knew she aught to apologise, but spite twisted coldly through her heart. A part of her wanted to push Harley into an explanation, to beat her into submission. The girl was so suggestible. Was that why the Joker found it so irresistible to toy with her? Ivy's fine eyebrows furrowed and dug into her brow bone as Harley's legs collapsed weakly beneath her. Her upper body trembled with the effort of sitting upright, until eventually her muscles gave in and she lay on her back, panting. The ill-fitting shirt now lay against the tell-tale curve.

"Oh Red, please-"

The words were spoken from a pit of desperation. Seeing the state Harley had let herself get into: the matted hair, losing half of her own clothes, cuts and grazes half-healed on her face, it was suddenly clear to Ivy that she was Harley's last resort. Ivy tried hard to swallow her resentment. To constantly find herself coming second to a man: to a _dead man_ at that!

She turned away, padding slowly across the grass, feeling each blade tickle the soles of her feet. It calmed her. The anger faded, mingling in with her other emotions as if it was diluting.

Beneath the veneer of inhumanity, Ivy was a smart woman, with a brain fuelled by logic. Her lover's current status disturbed her, and a question floated to the surface of it all: why hadn't Harley come sooner?

"What took you so long?" Ivy vocalised her thoughts with her back to Harley. She watched the vines on the wall; the fruits and flowers of late May with their petals opening like so many eyes watching her, judging her reactions. She swore to have shed her humanity long ago, and yet here was the last fragment of it, back to taunt her.

"I tried," panted Harley, flat on her back with both hands massaging her rounded stomach. "So hard."

"Who knows about this?"

Harley gave out a cry, almost like the bleat of a frightened animal. "I-"

Suddenly overcome, Ivy spun on her heels and dove to the ground. She scuttled over to Harley and cradled the woman's head, laying it in her lap. From here she could survey the damage. Her hands cupped Harley's face. She saw the eyelids rimmed red raw; a gash above her left eyebrow that looked deep and half-healed. As Harley threw her head back in relief and exhaustion Ivy noticed two dark purple ovals beneath each ear: throttling bruises. Fury made Ivy clench her thigh muscles. She saw Harley's head move with the tension.

She wiped the brow, taking care not to touch the wound, feeling oil and caked make-up on the dry skin. It had been a while since she had seen Harley without her 'face' on, as she liked to call it. She reached down to the collar and with a deft thumb and finger she snapped the button out of its buttonhole. Harley whimpered.

Ivy shushed her. "Hush now, love. I need to check you over. Ivy knows best."

Harley's head lolled back again in submission. As Ivy reached down to the other buttons, her red hair fell into Harley's face, tickling her nose with the scent of something brackish, like henna. It enticed something she could barely remember out into the open; something she had been storing.

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks all for your patience. Normal service will be resumed soon. :D<strong>


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